


The Philosopher's Stone as told by John Watson

by Spinning_In_Infinity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Potterlock - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Potterlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 22:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1835143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spinning_In_Infinity/pseuds/Spinning_In_Infinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a first year Gryffindor at Hogwarts school, where he first meets the mysterious Ravenclaw, Sherlock Holmes. Their unlikely friendship leads to seven years of adventure, excitement, and an unexpected romance. Set during the original timeline, with serious upcoming Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever serious fic series, and my pet project thus far. Still in the works, but so far have done up to book four :) All the more serious Johnlock will be unveiled later in the series, as it's slightly creepy to imagine eleven year olds having at it. Enjoy!

It was just nearing 10:45 as John Watson and his family approached platform nine of King’s Cross Station, his father weaving the heavy trolley through the crowds of people, some of whom were looking a little perplexed by John’s new barn owl, Hector, sitting calmly in his cage atop the large trunk. John could scarcely keep the skip out of his step as they drew closer, his heart dancing in every region of his body. Even the sullenness of his sister Harriet, sloping along some way behind them, couldn’t quash his excitement. The day had finally come – he was going to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

He caught sight of the large number nine hanging from the barrier in the centre of the platform and he remembered the words of the letter he’d received not two months ago, advising him how to access the hidden magical station, as well as the way to Diagon Alley to purchase his school equipment. Oh, what a journey that had been. His heart had leapt the moment the brick wall behind The Leaky Cauldron pub had started to shift, revealing the long street lined with wizard shops. It was like stepping right into a storybook – the displays in every window more bizarre and extraordinary than the last. He’d pored over every single one of his new books, and while he didn’t understand everything they told him, it was a thrill to imagine he’d one day be able to do all these spells. His parents had had to confiscate his wand – thirteen inches, rowan and unicorn hair, slightly springy – after more than one occasion where he’d taken it out in public and accidentally set fire to things or sent sparks flying every which way.

The only downside to the past few weeks was that Harriet – more commonly referred to as Harry – had been even more unpleasant to him than usual. She’d always said there was something weird about him, and here was the written proof. The fact that he was a wizard came as something of a surprise, but it was more than reason enough for her to trip him up every time he passed or write various rude comments in his school books before their parents had noticed and put a stop to it. Now she had to content herself with shooting him filthy looks and sulking. John didn’t care – she’d always been vile to him but soon he wouldn’t have to put up with that. He was on his way!

“Right,” his mother said in a low voice as they drew up to the barrier of platforms nine and ten. “The letter said to just push through the barrier, didn’t it?”

John nodded – he’d memorised the letter by heart, he’d read it so many times – and clenched his fists in excitement.

“Might be best if only one of us goes through,” his father said. “Less conspicuous if only two of us disappear than four.”  
His mother nodded and opened her arms to hug her son. John allowed himself to be kissed and nodded dutifully when she demanded frequent letters to let them know how he was getting on. Her eyes were a little wet when she pulled apart, and she dabbed at them with a tissue.

“Take care, my love,” she said. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

“I will,” John promised. He glanced at Harry, who was standing with her arms folded some yards away.

“Harriet,” Mrs. Watson said sternly. “Say goodbye to your brother.”

Harry huffed and sighed but gave him a reluctant wave all the same.

“Right,” his father said bracingly, his hand on John’s shoulder. “Ready to go, son?”

“Yes,” John said, his voice shaking with anticipation. With one last wave at his mother and Harry, he and his father strode towards the barrier – and out the other side.

“Blimey,” Mr. Watson said, staring at the scarlet engine that was emitting copious amounts of steam into the air. The new platform was crowded with students and parents, the air filled with the sound of farewells and the various squawking, hissing and meowing from the students’ pets. Hector hooted in excitement and ruffled his wings. They moved away from the barrier just in time before a redheaded boy in horn-rimmed glasses burst through, followed in quick succession by two identical redheads, another who looked to be about John’s own age, and a fifth boy with scruffy black hair and glasses.

“C’mon,” Mr. Watson said. “Better get you a seat, looks like it’s boarding.”

He heaved John’s trunk onto the rack of an empty apartment, John carrying Hector, and went back onto the platform to talk to John through the window.

“Have a good year,” he said, looking a bit bright-eyed himself now. “Anything you need, just write to us.”

“Thanks, Dad,” John said. His father held out a hand and he took it, squeezing his fingers tightly as the porter blew his whistle, slamming the door closed along the train.

“Bye, son!” Mr. Watson called as the train began to move off. “Be careful! Have fun!”

“Bye, Dad!” John called back, as the train picked up speed and the waving parents were lost from view. John sat back in his seat and let out a long breath, gazing out the window as the countryside began to slip by faster and faster. There was a knock on the sliding door of his compartment and a small girl with long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail opened it a fraction. Her eyes were red and she was sniffing loudly.

“Is it okay if I sit here?” she asked, sounding thoroughly miserable.

“Sure,” John said, and she sat down on the seat opposite him, dragging her trunk behind her.

“This boy and girl made me leave the room I was in,” she said, resting her feet on the lid of her trunk. “They said the bigger ones are for Slytherin only.”

After his extensive reading of his new books, John recognised the name of the Hogwarts House.

“That’s not very nice,” he said.

She shook her head and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I’m John Watson,” said John, trying to sound friendly.

“Molly Hooper,” she sniffed.

“Why’re you crying?”

“I. . .” she swallowed. “I don’t want to go.”

“Why?” John marvelled. “We’re going to learn magic.”

“I don’t like being away from home,” Molly said. “I miss my mum.”

“Well, you can write to her,” John said.

“I don’t have an owl,” she said. “Mum said they were too expensive.”

“I’m sure they’ll have ones you can use at the school,” John said with a smile he hoped looked comforting. “Or you can borrow mine,” he said, pointed at Hector, who turned his head to face Molly.

“R-really?” she said, looking up at him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Anytime.”

“Thank you,” she said, and gave him a small smile. “He’s lovely.”

“Cool, isn’t he?” John said proudly, sticking a finger through the bars and stroking Hector’s feathery back. Hector blinked benignly at him and hooted softly.

During the next hour of the journey, Molly seemed to get more cheerful as they chatted. She hadn’t really looked at any of her new books, so John got out a few of his to show her his favourite bits. When the lunch trolley came round, he spent a fair bit of his new wizard money on a bag of funny-looking beans the witch with the trolley explained came in many different and weird flavours, three liquorice wands, a handful of chocolate frogs, and a couple of pumpkin pasties, which he shared with Molly, who only bought herself one chocolate frog.

By the time darkness was starting to fall outside the train, Molly seemed to have perked up, and their talk turned to the Sorting – the ceremony that would decide which school House they would be in for the next seven years.

“I’m thinking Gryffindor sounds pretty cool,” John said. “It’s where all the brave people go, that book says.” He indicated Hogwarts: A History, which was still lying open on the seat beside Molly.

“How do they pick who goes where?” Molly says.

“I think it says some sort of magic hat,” John said, picking up the book and flipping through the pages. Unable to find the chapter he was looking for, he shrugged and stowed the book away, leaning back with his hands behind his head. The vibrations of the train and the gathering dark were starting to make him feel sleepy. He managed to catch about thirty minutes rest – Molly continuing to flick through Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them – before she shook him awake and said that some of the other students were starting to change into their uniforms. They pulled on their black robes and hats, and the train began to slow to a heavy stop. It was a cool, pleasant evening, and when they stepped out onto the platform – a nearby sign read ‘Hogsmeade Station’ – they heard a loud, gruff voice calling:

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years over ‘ere! Alrigh’ there, Harry?”

Glancing round, John saw the bespectacled boy he’d seen entering platform nine and three-quarters after the redhead boys give someone a cheerful wave. The gruff voice belong to an enormous bearded man, who was holding a lantern in one gigantic hand. Their trunks left on the platform to be taken to the castle separately, John, Molly, and the rest of the first years followed the giant man to the edge of a vast lake, the black surface of which was rippling slightly. They all climbed into small boats and set off towards the magnificent castle of Hogwarts – its many windows glowing with light, casting huge shadows over the stone walls. They gaped up at it as they glided across the lake, and John heard the other occupant of their boat – a tall, striking boy with dark curly hair – give a little sigh of awe.

Once they’d arrived at the castle doors, they were met by the formidable-looking Professor McGonagall, who led them through the grand Entrance Hall and through another set of doors into an even bigger chamber where the rest of the school was waiting for them. Staring round at the other students, John saw that the robes of each pupil on the four tables bore a different crest of arms – Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. His stomach was twisted slightly with nerves as Professor McGonagall led them right to the front of the hall and they stopped before a small wooden stool, upon which was placed a tatty looking wizard’s hat. A rip near the brim of the hat opened and, to John’s surprise, spoke:

“Oh you may not think I’m pretty,  
But don’t judge on what you see. . .”

As the hat went on to describe the various qualities that each House represented, John felt his heart sink a little. While he’d liked the sound of Gryffindor – it seemed from all the history books he’d read that the coolest and most powerful wizards had been placed there – it seemed to him like he was probably destined to be in Hufflepuff – the House invented for ‘the rest’, he feared. For those who weren’t particularly brave or smart or cunning. He gave a resigned sigh and looked around at his fellow first-years. His eyes fell once more upon the scruffy-haired boy he’d seen pass through the barrier. He looked pale and a bit queasy, his fingers toying at the material of the robes at his sides. His fringe was parted slightly above his eyes, and John could just make out something red to one side of his forehead – it looked like a cut of some sort. Something nagged at the back of his mind – something he’d read, perhaps – but he didn’t have time to ponder on it any further as Professor McGonagall had unrolled a long length of parchment and said,

“When I call your name, you will come forward and sit on the stool. Abbott, Hannah.”

She began working her way through the alphabet of names on her list. When she reached the H’s, he noticed the curly-haired boy who’d shared his and Molly’s boat step forward when Professor McGonagall called, “Holmes, Sherlock.”

A small titter went through the crowd at the sound of Sherlock’s name. John saw a blond boy with a pinched, pale face snorting with derisive laughter. Sherlock, however, either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. He strolled calmly up to the stool and sat down on it, allowing Professor McGonagall to place the hat on his head. He sat there for about three minutes while the Sorting Hat made its decision, until it cried out to the hall at large: “RAVENCLAW!”

Sherlock Holmes raised his eyebrows, looking surprised, but handed the hat back to Professor McGonagall and sauntered over to the Ravenclaw table, who were applauding as he sat down amongst them. Some of them held out their hands for him to shake, which he did so, but John noticed he pulled his hand back rather quickly.

Molly’s turn was next. As she sat down, John began to wish his name wasn’t right at the end – he’d rather have just been Sorted and got it over with right at the start. He tried not to let his nerved get the better of him and distracted himself by staring up at the starry ceiling – which was obviously bewitched to mirror the sky outside. Molly was proclaimed a Gryffindor, and she hurried off to take her seat, giving John a pleased smile as she passed him. Then, a few names later, Professor McGonagall called, “Potter, Harry,” and a whisper ran through the hall.

“Potter, did she say?”

“The Harry Potter?”

John vaguely remembered that name from the pages of one of his books. It was a moment before it hit him – of course, Harry Potter was the one who had survived being killed by that evil wizard, Lord Voldemort. The lightning-shaped scar on his forehead was evidence of the curse that had rebounded. The Boy Who Lived, the books had called him. Harry Potter sat on the stool and the hat was placed on his head. After a minute or so, John could see him muttering something under his breath, as though trying to persuade the hat in its decision. Eventually, the hat cried, “GRYFFINDOR!” and the Gryffindor table exploded into thunderous applause. John could see the two redheaded twins from the station shouting, “WE GOT POTTER! WE GOT POTTER!”. Harry Potter gave a relieved grin as he sat down, happily shaking the hand of anyone who offered, and turned to face the front of the hall again. When Professor McGonagall finally reached the W’s, John was just about hyperventilating. The last three students had gone to Slytherin, but he hoped it was just a coincidence. He wouldn’t be in Slytherin. He refused.

“Watson, John,” Professor McGonagall called.

John shuffled forward to accept the hat, his knees feeling like jelly as he sat on the stool. Once the hat was on his head, he heard a small voice in his ear, making him jump. He realised it was the hat, talking to him.

“Hmm,” it said. “Let’s have a look here then. Yes. Right.” The hat seemed to be talking to itself more than him, and John shifted slightly on the stool, his heart thumping. “A hard worker, indeed yes, and a high moral standard – interesting. But what’s this? Hmm, that adds a bit of flavour.”

Please hurry up, John couldn’t help but think. Just get it over with.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” the hat’s voice said. “Under normal circumstances I’d say you were a classic Hufflepuff, but there’s that little extra something right there. Yes. Yes, I think so.” Then, to the whole room, it shouted: “GRYFFINDOR!”

John let out a huge sigh of relief and strode quickly to the Gryffindor table, taking a seat beside Molly as “Weasley, Ronald,” was too chosen as a Gryffindor. He saw Harry Potter cheering loudly as the redheaded boy sat down. Once the Sorting was over, the tall, silver-haired headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, said a few words and the feast began. It was food like John had never seen. Obviously he’d never gone hungry at home – his mother was an excellent cook, but there was so much to choose from here, and the plates automatically replenished themselves of whatever had been extracted from them, followed by dishes of sumptuous desserts. John stuffed himself almost to bursting point with steak, chicken, mashed potatoes, fried mushrooms and a large slice of chocolate pudding with strawberry custard to finish. Rather feeling they’d have to roll him to the Gryffindor dormitory, he staggered after Molly and the rest of the first years as a loud-voiced Prefect showed them the way.

“Are you alright?” Molly asked him with a slight laugh as he rubbed his stomach.

“Yeah,” he said, blowing out his cheeks and giving a small burp. “Sorry. That was good.”

“Yeah, it was,” Molly said. “My mum’s not much of a cook so we have takeaways mostly. It’s nice to have a proper meal.”

“Is your mother a witch?” John asked as they followed the group up a long flight of stairs. The walls, he noticed, were covered in moving portraits, the residents of the paintings looking down at them with vague interest.

“No,” Molly said. “Don’t know about my dad, though. He left before I was born.”

“Oh,” John said, feeling guilty for asking, “sorry.”

She smiled to show him it was no problem, and they walked through the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. It was a large, comfortable room with a blazing fire and loads of squashy red sofas and armchairs. Percy Weasley – the Prefect, clearly Ronald’s brother – showed them where their respective dormitories were, and advised that they should go to bed fairly promptly, as they would have an early start tomorrow. Saying goodnight to Molly, John followed the other boys – Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas – up the spiral staircase to their dorm room. The four-poster beds looked most enticing after such a long day, and John changed into his pyjamas and climbed in almost at once. After all the candles had been blown out, he lay on his back, looking at the dark canopy above him. The light of the moon shone through a nearby window, and he could hear the hooting of owls from outside. He wondered if Hector was there, exploring his new home. John felt a ridiculously wide grin stretch across his face as he closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he would start learning how to be a wizard – to learn magic and make potions and everything else. With a happy sigh, he rolled over, and was soon fast asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was already high in the sky as John and his fellow Gryffindors crossed the grounds to the greenhouses for their first lesson of the year – Herbology. When he’d first woken up that morning, it had taken him a moment to remember exactly where he was – not many of the beds he’d slept in had had plush velvet drapes around them – but when he remembered he’d bounced out of bed, dressed quickly and bounded down the stairs to the Great Hall for breakfast. He’d had to bound in several different directions, after getting lost a couple of times, but after asking the way from a passing ghost he’d made it there eventually. The breakfast spread he’d sat down to had been a considerably different one than he was used to. Mostly at home he just had a bowl of cereal, but here he had the option of porridge, toast, bacon, eggs, kippers, kedgeree, croissants, and much more besides.

Sporting the same slightly-too-full feeling from last night – having eaten almost his whole weight in bacon sandwiches – John, Molly and the others waited outside the greenhouses for Professor Sprout – a plump witch with flyaway grey hair and a good deal of dirt on her robes and hands – with the Hufflepuffs, with whom they shared the lesson.

“Morning, first years!” she said jovially as they trouped into greenhouse one. The air was thick and humid inside, and the shelves and tables lining the walls were laden with many plants that most of the students had never seen or even imagined before. There were Venus flytraps with tendrils that swayed gently by themselves, plump green cacti with what looked like boils in place of spikes, and a long line what appeared to be normal pot-plants, except they were shivering slightly and emitting strange whining noises.

“Right,” said Professor Sprout, pulling on a pair of thick garden gloves and grinning at the class. “For your first lesson, we’re going to be identifying some of the specimens in this greenhouse. Each of you get your gloves on and take an apron and a clipboard. I want you to go round the room and see if you can tick off each of the plants on the list with the number attached to them. Just to see how much you already know, which I know for some of you will be more than others. And mind you don’t get too close to the venomous tentacular – it’s teething.”

A round-faced boy standing near the swaying vines of the flytraps edged a little further away from them.

The next hour passed fairly pleasantly. John and Molly worked together – figuring that two clueless heads were better than one – and managed to correctly identify six plants out of twenty, which to them seemed quite an achievement considering they’d mostly got by on guesswork. A bossy-voiced Gryffindor girl with bushy brown hair was explaining loudly to anyone who would listen about the various features of each of the plants – having clearly memorised every paragraph of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi.

Next was Charms, with tiny Professor Flitwick. He said that to start with they were going to be learning a nifty Hover charm on some feathers he’d placed on every desk. John and Molly tried the incantation again and again, partnered with the swish-and-flick wand motion, but Molly only just managed to raise her feather about three centimetres, while John’s just rolled about on the desk. They shared this class with the Ravenclaws, and by the end of the lesson the only two people who’d managed to successfully levitate their feather higher than two feet was the bushy girl from Herbology – Hermione Granger – and the curly-haired Ravenclaw boy from the Sorting, whose name John couldn’t quite recall, who made his feather weave through the air like a puppeteer.

They’d worked up quite an appetite by the time lunch rolled around, and John and Molly helped themselves to shepherd’s pie and carrots while laughing at a funny story the Weasley twins – Fred and George – were telling a little way down the table. Afterwards, Molly was invited by a couple of the other Gryffindor girls to explore the castle a bit before third lesson, leaving John to his own devices. Shouldering his book-bag, he made his way out of the huge doors and across the grounds to the lake, where a group of Hufflepuffs was throwing bits of toast to something beneath the water. As he watched, John saw a large tentacle curl around the floating bread and scoop it under.

“Wow,” John muttered, heading towards a small group of trees and settling down in the shade, planning to read a bit more of Magical Drafts and Potions before their lesson with Professor Snape than afternoon. He was just pulling out the heavy book, leaning against the trunk of a tree, when a series of square and very heavy objects dropped down onto his head. “OUCH!”

“Whoops,” said a voice from above him. Eyes watering, John looked up into the branches of the tree, massaging the lump forming beneath his dark blond hair. 

The curly-haired Ravenclaw boy from Charms was sitting up in the tree – his foot resting on a limb, three books stacked on a V-shaped branch beside him. The remainder of the pile was now scattered around John.

“Apologies,” he called down, not looking all that bothered at having nearby decapitated his classmate.

“You should watch out,” John frowned, getting to his feet.

“Should I?” the boy said with a yawn, raising his dark eyebrows. “It seems to me that you might be the one who should watch where you sit.”

“I didn’t see you up there,” said John irritably, tugging his bag back onto his shoulders.

“Clearly,” the boy said. He swung his legs over and dropped down to the ground. He was a good few inches taller than John, and so skinny it made him look even more so. He stared, unsmiling, at John, who blushed awkwardly. “You could perhaps do with some lessons in observation, Watson,” he said.

“How d’you know my name?” John asked.

“I remember you from the Sorting,” the boy said. “I severely doubt you can remember mine.”

“No,” John said, feeling stupid.

“Not surprising,” the boy said, starting to gather his fallen books. John noticed that he’d already heavily annotated the pages of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration. Then, using some kind of Summoning charm John was fairly certain wasn’t in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade One, he collected the rest of his books from the tree and stalked off in the direction of the castle.  
Sitting back down on the grass now there wasn’t any more risk of concussion, John stared after him as he pulled open one of the castle doors and disappeared inside. While John was still annoyed, and his head was starting to ache, there was a part of him that was, inexplicably, intrigued. 

~ ~ * ~ ~

By the time they were lining up outside the dungeon classroom for Potions, John’s head had started to throb painfully – the lump having grown to the size of a small chicken’s egg. Molly suggested he go to the Hospital Wing, but John was determined not to miss his first Potions lesson. He’d heard tales of Professor Snape doling out horrible punishments to anyone who was late or skipped class, and he wasn’t going to lose any points to Gryffindor before he’d even gained any.

Potions was an unpleasant experience. Professor Snape had the appearance of an overgrown bat, his black cloak billowing about him as he strode to the front of the class and started on about potions and the skills needed to make them. From the sounds of it, John wasn’t going to have much success in this class. He’d never even mastered making hot chocolate properly, so goodness knows how he’d ever be able to concoct all these strange drafts Snape was talking about. After about fifteen minutes into the lesson, it became blindingly obvious that, while Snape showed nothing less than contempt for mostly all the Gryffindors, there was one in particular he disliked the most – Harry Potter. During the course of the hour, he deducted two points from Gryffindor for the most pointless reasons – even accusing Harry of not helping Neville Longbottom out of spite, but John was pretty sure Snape would have deducted points anyway if he’d seen Harry giving Neville any kind of help at all, or accused him of cheating. By the time they were packing up their books, poor Harry was looking both confused and angry, and John couldn’t say he blamed him. He could hear Harry and his friend Ron Weasley bad-mouthing Snape all the way back to their common room. Their last lesson was Astronomy, to be held at midnight on the top of one of the many towers, and John was planning on getting at least couple of hours sleep before then, which would hopefully ease the pain in his head a bit. Molly settled down by the fire with a couple of other girls, and John made his way up the boys’ dormitory stairs. He was just about to throw himself down on his newly-made bed, when he noticed something zooming round and round inside the drapes. It was a small paper aeroplane, obviously charmed to fly continuously until received. John, seeing his name written on one of the wings in dark blue ink, reached up and grabbed hold of it. As he opened the folds, something small and cylindrical fell out onto his duvet. He picked it up. It was a small glass phial of what looked like gooey white paste. He looked at the unfolded sheet of paper and saw written there in elegant writing – For your head. S.H.

S.H.? It took a moment for John to place the initials. He was fairly certain the Ravenclaw boy from before had had a name beginning with S. He reached round and gently touched the bump on the back of his skull. A little hesitantly, he uncorked the phial and let some of the paste run onto his fingers, then began to rub it cautiously onto the swelling. The effect was almost instant – the pain ceased, and he could feel the swelling subside like a deflated balloon. There was still a decent amount of paste left in the bottle, which he stowed away in the drawer of his bedside cabinet. He lay back on his bed for a while, staring up at the crimson curtains, contemplating the Ravenclaw boy. He’d not seemed to like John at all, so why would he have sent something to help him? It didn’t make sense to John. Eventually, he shrugged and – hearing the many footsteps exiting the common room below for dinner – decided to join them. People were filing into the Great Hall from all directions when he arrived, as the golden dishes and plates were magically piled high with delicious food. Since hearty meals made him sleepy, John only ate one plate of chicken pie and chips, followed by just one cherry bun. He didn’t want to dose off during his next lesson.

By the time the Gryffindors had reached the Astronomy tower, the Ravenclaws were already there. John immediately sought out the boy from the tree – standing on his own by the battlements – and gave him a nervous smile, which wasn’t returned.

“Um. . .” John cleared his throat. “I just wanted. . . to say thanks. You know, for. . .” he gestured to the back of his head. The boy gave a smooth shrug and concealed a yawn. John was struck by how perfectly defined his cheekbones were – it was like his face was sculpted from marble.

“I liked the aeroplane,” John said, flushing a little at the childish comment.

To his surprise, the boy’s mouth curled into a small smile and he looked smug. “Just a simple levitation charm,” he said.

“But you must’ve made it fly all the way up to Gryffindor tower,” John said. “That’s amazing.”  
He raised his eyebrows, but this time in genuine surprise rather than sarcasm.

“You think so?”

“Of course,” John said with a slight laugh. “I’m willing to bet there’s not many other first years who could do it.”

The surprise on the boy’s face eased back into the smug grin. “You’re probably right,” he said. “I’ve been doing magic since I was three.”

“Show off,” John smirked. “I blew up a bee’s nest once.”

“How’d that work out for you?”

“Not too great,” John said, lifting the hem of his shirt just enough for the boy to see the three scars still imprinted on his stomach. “I think I managed to engorge their stings.”

The boy chuckled. “How very clever of you, Watson.”

“John,” John said, then held out his hand.

The boy looked surprised again for a moment, before reaching out and shaking John’s hand.

“Sherlock,” he said. “Sherlock Holmes.”


	3. Chapter 3

Six months had passed since John and Sherlock had entered their unexpected friendship, and since then it had become blatantly apparent to John over the past six months that Sherlock Holmes was nothing short of a genius. His grades were higher than any of those of the other first years – Ravenclaw or otherwise. The only real competition he had was Hermione Granger – who incidentally, had formed an unlikely alliance with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, after an incident involving a troll at Halloween. The two of them had their skills that outshined the other, though. Sherlock could perform spells that John knew were NEWT level, while Hermione was only working to OWL standard – which, quite frankly, was pretty remarkable in itself – and while Hermione could name all of Jupiter’s moons and list their distinctive characteristics like a shopping list, John was greatly amused to discover that Sherlock didn’t even know the Earth revolved round the sun.

“I mean, how can you have not known that?” he asked Sherlock in incredulity one afternoon in late March. They were working on their Astronomy papers together in a secluded section of the Library.

“We’ve been over this before,” Sherlock said with an irritable sigh. The star-chart he was making looked less like a diagram of the heavens than if a party of drunken spiders had decided to hop in a jar of ink and line-dance across the parchment. “It’s. Not. Important.”

“But. . .” John shook his head. “Everyone knows it.”

“Well, clearly not,” Sherlock said. “Do you know the characteristics and features that distinguish a kneazle from a domestic cat?”

“No.”

“But surely everyone knows that,” Sherlock said, with a satisfied smirk.

“That’s different,” John said, scribbling the name of a planet he was fairly certain was Io. Or was it Ganymede? “I swear, you’ll be Minister for Magic by fourth year. Though I suppose you’d have to bump off Mycroft for that, wouldn’t you?”

Mycroft was Sherlock’s older brother. He’d graduated from Hogwarts the previous year and was now a junior assistant to the Minister himself, as well as a member of the Wizengamot – the youngest ever to have sat on the panel.

“Mycroft doesn’t want to be Minister,” Sherlock said. “He likes to lurk in the shadows while having complete control over what other people do and think. He doesn’t like his name being broadcasted into the limelight – takes away all the dramatics.”

“So he has influence over Fudge?”

“As much as he can. The Ministry is a far more intricate web than Hogwarts, so it may be pressing for even his skills. Plus there’s Lucius Malfoy always getting in the way. But I reckon we can safely say all of Fudge’s remotely good ideas come from Mycroft. The man’s such an idiot he couldn’t possibly come up with them himself.”

“Malfoy? Like that pompous git in Slytherin?”

“His father. He’s a very smooth talker who throws money in all the right places. Mycroft reckons Fudge would rebuild the Ministry out of toothpicks if Malfoy said it was a good idea.”

“Wasn’t Mycroft a Slytherin too?”

“Yep – first in the family, according to Mother. It’s his unquenchable ambition that did it.”

“Bit worrying isn’t it? All bad wizards were Slytherins, weren’t they?”

“Statistics say yes, but it doesn’t mean all Slytherins turn out bad. Besides,” a smirk stretched across his mouth, “he’s too much of a mummy’s boy to cause any real harm.”

John set down his quill and leaned back in his chair. The sunlight streaming through a nearby window looked so inviting, but he still had another star-chart to complete and two rolls of parchment on Switching spells for Professor McGonagall.

“How far are you?” he asked Sherlock, who sighed in a world-weary way and laid down his quill on his car-crash of a star-chart.

“I don’t know, John,” he said, in a sulky, petulant voice that made John know what was coming. “This just doesn’t make any sense to me.”

By this time in their acquaintance, John knew these words would never have escaped Sherlock’s lips unless he really wanted something. Sherlock Holmes would never admit he couldn’t do something unless there was some ulterior motive behind it. And John knew what this one was.

“Sherlock, I’m not doing it for you. I haven’t finished mine yet, and I’ve got that paper for McGonagall for Tuesday.”

“Trade up?”

“No. Anyone can tell your work from mine a mile away. She’ll know if it’s you who’s done it.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it sound like you – I’ll just add in a minimum of seven factual mistakes and around twenty grammatical and punctuation errors.”

John sighed. “Have you been analysing my homework again?”

Another significant trait of Sherlock Holmes was his uncanny ability to scrutinise any person he happened to meet and relay even the most personal details about them just by their appearance, behaviour, or – in John’s case – their misuse of the English language. John recalled back to when they’d first become friends – by the following lunchtime Sherlock had identified the kind of shampoo John used, the fact that he and Harry had a strained relationship, and even that John had broken his leg falling from a tree when he was six years old (discerned from a slight limp in his right leg that John wasn’t even aware he had). It baffled and amazed John, and only aided to the ever-increasing awe he felt for his new friend. He’d never admit this, of course – Sherlock’s head was big enough already without any help from him. It didn’t help that most girls fawned over him when he displayed these skills to strangers on demand, show-off that he was. He’d become something of a celebrity enigma to most of the students in first year, and even some above. It didn’t exactly help matters that Sherlock was, in the words of the girls, ‘gorgeous’. Even John could admit it – Sherlock was taller than almost everyone in first year, and possessed a maturity in both looks and manner that the other boys just didn’t have. John had even heard a couple of third year girls twittering about him as he passed by in the Great Hall.

“Fine,” John reached across the table and dragged Sherlock’s star-chart towards him. It looked like a Rorschach inkblot test. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he said with the air of a medic relaying bad news of a loved one to their relations, “but it’s beyond hope.”

“Please,” Sherlock said with a pout. “Is there nothing you can do, Dr. Watson?”

John smirked and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment towards him, switching his quill to his left hand. “Your writing’s too weird for my right,” he said in answer to Sherlock’s raised eyebrows. “Seriously, Sherlock, it’s awful.”

“You don’t need neat writing for an organised mind and an observational eye,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. “In fact, several studies have shown—”

“Shhh!” someone from a nearby desk reprimanded him. Looking over, John saw Hermione Granger glaring at them, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley sitting opposite as they pored over a thick book. Harry and Ron gave John and Sherlock apologetic grimaces, and John replied with a good-natured shrug. Sherlock, however, just stared at Hermione, who had diverted her attention to the open pages in front of her. Uh-oh, John thought. Here we go. He gathered up his parchment, quill and ink and got to his feet as Sherlock strolled calmly over to Hermione and leaned low over her shoulder.

“You won’t find what you’re looking for in that book,” he said in a low voice, right in her ear. John saw her stiffen, her face flushing scarlet. “Try something smaller. Much smaller.” He straightened up. “Come on, John.”

“Coming,” John said, rolling his eyes at Harry and Ron, who both looked confused but were still smirking at Hermione’s embarrassment.

“How d’you know what they were looking for?” John asked as they left the Library. “Or were you just messing with her?”

“Oh, come on,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as they headed for Great Hall. It was noisier than the Library, but they still needed to finish their work. “It’s obvious.”

“Pretend that it isn’t.”

“Well, they’re clearly looking for information on Nicolas Flamel,” Sherlock said, sitting down on the end of the Ravenclaw table and John sat opposite him. He felt a couple of nearby Ravenclaws looking at him – they did make something of an unusual duo – but he ignored them.

“Clearly,” he said, he asked, unrolling his parchment again and starting to redraw Sherlock’s star-chart. “So who’s Nicolas Flannel?” 

“Flamel,” Sherlock said with a small laugh, his hand already flying across his own parchment in a good counterfeit of John’s handwriting. “He’s an alchemist – friend of Dumbledore’s.”

“Yeah, but who is he?”

“He’s the only person who’s ever managed to create a fully-functioning Philosopher’s Stone, and the elixir of eternal life. By now my guess would be he’s. . .” he paused in his writing for a second, his brow furrowed in thought, “about six-hundred and sixty by now, give or take.”

“Whoa.”

“Pretty much.”

“So how’d you know those three were trying to look him up? And please don’t tell me it was something to do with Granger’s hairstyle or something.”

“Of course not. Though, saying that, she does always tie her hair back when she’s working on something particularly difficult. No, like I said – it’s obvious. Think, John.”

John paused, his brain feeling full of fluff and rubbish.

“Okay,” Sherlock said, setting down his quill and folding his arms, leaning closer to John. “You remember when Potter and Malfoy arranged to have that duel in the Trophy Room about five months ago?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, maybe it’s not so obvious then. Anyway, Malfoy was boasting about how he’d tipped Filch off that Potter and Weasley were going to be in the Trophy Room at midnight, and naturally Potter would be stupid enough to fall for it.”

“Potter’s not stupid,” John said, feeling protective of his Housemate.

“No, but he is gullible – side-effect of growing up with Muggles, I suppose—” John glared and Sherlock gave an apologetic hand gesture. “Anyway, this was back in November, just after the Gryffindor and Slytherin Quidditch match—”

“The one you skipped out on?”

“Yes. I went to read in one of the trees by the gamekeeper’s hut, and heard him talking to Potter, Weasley and Granger after the match was over—”

“What, near the Forbidden Forest?! What if a werewolf had got you or something?”

“There aren’t any werewolves in there,” Sherlock snapped, clearly irritated by John’s interruptions. John sat back and pressed his lips together to show he’d shut up now. “I could hear them talking from down the chimney and they were saying about a three-headed dog they’d come across in the castle. I guessed it must be guarding something before Hagrid let slip it was, and figured it had to be the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“Well, if it’s something only you heard then of course it’s not going to be obvious for me!” John said, annoyed at being made to feel stupid. He sighed. “What then?”

“Well, there was an article in the Daily Prophet near the beginning of the year which said that a top-security vault had been broken into by unknown dark witches or wizards, but the vault had been emptied earlier that day. It had to be something more important than galleons – no dark wizard worth their salt would risk imprisonment just for a few pockets of gold – and had to have been moved to somewhere as highly guarded as the vault would have been. Of course Hogwarts is a safe place, but why not somewhere where it could be guarded constantly by Aurors, like the Ministry?”

“What’re—” John began to ask what ‘Aurors’ were, but Sherlock went on regardless.

“Clearly it must have been important that the item was placed under guard by something the owner could trust entirely – someone like Dumbledore. Perhaps a close friend? Someone he may have worked with in the past?” Here, Sherlock reached into his bag and pulled out something small and square, handing it to John. It was Albus Dumbledore’s Chocolate Frog card. Sherlock had suggested Harry, Ron and Hermione try something much smaller than a textbook. “The end.”

John read: “Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling?”

“No, no, no!” Sherlock said impatiently. “Before that!”

“Um. . . discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood and his work on alchemy with his partner. . . Nicolas Flamel?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said triumphantly. “And what is created by alchemy?”

“The Philosopher’s Stone.”

John’s head was reeling. It was a marvel to him that Sherlock was only the same age as he was – his vocabulary was more like that of a fifth year at least.

“My guess is the Stone’s hidden somewhere in the castle, probably guarded by more than just the three-headed dog. Possibly enchantments by each of the teacher’s here.”

John stared at Sherlock, his mouth hanging slightly open. Sherlock, who had returned to John’s Transfiguration essay, did not seem to notice.

“That. . .” John said, awestruck, “was incredible.”

Sherlock looked back up at him, pleasantly surprised, as he always did when John paid him a compliment.

“Thank you.”

“Seriously,” John leaned so far forward Sherlock jerked back in surprise. “How d’you do it?”

“I notice things, John,” Sherlock said with a smile. “It’s all just observation, brainwork and storage.”

“Storage?”

Sherlock tapped the side of his head with one finger. “In here – my Mind Palace.”

John snorted. “Mind Palace?”

“Helps me store information,” Sherlock said. He glanced distastefully at the star-chart John was leaning on. “Important information, anyway.”

“You. . .” John sighed and shook his head, unable to think of any other way to say it. “You’re remarkable, Sherlock.”

And it could have been John’s imagination, but he almost thought he saw Sherlock blush.


	4. Chapter 4

End of year exams were rapidly drawing nearer, and John was starting to feel the pressure. Their teachers were constantly reminding them of the fact that they needed to pass these exams to enter their second years – which didn’t do much to calm everyone’s nerves. The only person who clearly wasn’t feeling the strain was, unsurprisingly, Sherlock. While John was poring over book after book in the Library, or else scanning and re-scanning his notes in the Gryffindor common room late into the night, Sherlock would lounge nearby, amusing himself by making various objects zoom around the room.

“Sod off, will you?!” John snapped one Saturday afternoon in the Library, as Sherlock was making a quill jab him repeatedly on the top of the head.

“Bored!” Sherlock groaned loudly, causing a couple of nearby Ravenclaws to glower reproachfully at their Housemate.

“Do some work,” John suggested, rubbing his scalp as the quill floated back down on the tabletop.

“I can’t – I know it all already,” Sherlock said sulkily, stretching his neck back so far John could no longer see his head.

“Then go and annoy someone else,” John said, re-reading a paragraph on goblin rebellions for the fifth time and still not taking any of it in. “Not all of us are geniuses, Sherlock – I need to revise.”

Sherlock responded by turning John’s inkbottle into a black mouse, which started to nibble the page he was reading.

“Sherlock,” John said through gritted teeth.

“Let’s do something else,” Sherlock said, returning John’s ink to him – though the bottle still had a tail and was squeaking faintly. “Chess?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you either get ferociously competitive or bored halfway through and refuse to play.”

“Well, you take so long to move.”

“That’s because, unlike you, I don’t have a mind that moves at eight-hundred miles an hour. I’m normal.”

“You’re boring.”

“Then leave me alone!” John said angrily. The stress of his inability to absorb facts and his current irritation at Sherlock was getting to him.

“Shhh!” Madam Pince, the librarian, shot a nasty look at John, who pointed in outrage at Sherlock.

“But he’s—!”

“Be quiet or go elsewhere!” she hissed, pressed a long-nailed finger against her lips.

John gathered his books, notes, ink and quills, shoved in his bag and stormed out of the Library, Sherlock strolling casually beside him.

“Where’re we going?” he asked, as if nothing had happened.

“I am going to the Great Hall. You are going away.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere, I don’t care. The bottom of the lake, maybe.”

“Not sure the merpeople would welcome me.”

John turned and, unable to come up with any kind of retort, stamped heavily on Sherlock’s foot. 

“Oww!” Sherlock hopped on the spot, a look of angry surprise on his face. John stalked away, deciding to go to the Common Room instead, in case Sherlock tried to follow him to the Great Hall. Sherlock had been absolutely insufferable for the past fortnight, ever since their teachers had made them start revising. He couldn’t seem to comprehend the idea that not everyone could read something once and then store it away in their mind, ready to whip it out whenever the situation called for it. John’s mind felt like a sieve, and he was absolutely dreading their History of Magic exam the following Wednesday, not that Sherlock cared. 

When he stepped into the Common Room, the only people there were Harry and Ron, who were playing a rather violent game of chess.

“C’mon!” Ron said in triumph, punching the air as Harry’s King dithered around the board, unable to move to any square without placing himself in mortal peril. “Checkmate!”

“Fine,” Harry said, rolling his eyes and rescuing his terrified King. He looked up and spotted John settling down onto a nearby sofa. “Alright, John?”

“Mmm,” John sighed, opening his A History of Magic at the stubbornly confusing goblin rebellion chapter again. If I ever meet Bathilda Bagshot, he thought, glancing at the author’s name on the front cover, I’m going to shove her stupid book right up her stupid nose.

“Revision getting you down?” Ron said, as the shattered chess pieces stacked by the side of their board began to re-assemble themselves.

“Something like that,” John said, running his hand through his hair in frustration. “I just wish knew what any of this meant.”

“Here,” Harry said, reaching down into his bag and pulling a wad of parchment. “Take a look at these.”

“Goblin Rebellions for Morons,” Ron explained and John flicked through the leafs of small, neat writing. “Hermione made them for us. We couldn’t understand any of it either.”

The phrasing in these notes was certainly a lot easier to comprehend than in the book. John sighed again, this time in relief and smiled broadly at Harry. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Harry shrugged with a grin. “Just give them back by Tuesday – last minute cramming and all that.”

John nodded and was just settling down again to read the notes, when the Common Room door opened and a fifth year called, “Oi, Watson – visitor for you.”

Through the open door, John could see Sherlock’s dark-haired figure standing there, his hands behind his back and an apologetic smile on his face. John – his own face stony and unsmiling – set down the notes and went over to the portrait hole.

“Yes?” he said, folding his arms.

Sherlock sighed ruefully. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?” John said.

“For annoying you. And turning your ink into a mouse. And. . .” he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, “for placing a Confundus charm on you when you weren’t looking.”

“What? You mean— that’s why I couldn’t understand any of it?!”

“Sort of.”

“You. . .!” John sighed and ran a hand over his eyes. “You’re impossible, Sherlock.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, folding his arms and leaning against the portrait hole. “Not remarkable?”

John glared at him and flushed crimson. Sherlock Holmes’s head was like a kaleidoscope of moods and temperaments – ranging from agreeable to arrogant to downright infuriating. The smirk faded a little from Sherlock’s face and he put his hands in his pockets, looking humbler.

“Want to go for a walk?” he asked. John thought about the stack of simplified notes waiting for him – the only way he’d get a remotely decent mark in his History of Magic exam. Then he looked back at Sherlock’s hopeful face and suddenly it didn’t seem to matter so much. He closed the portrait hole and Sherlock’s face broke into a bright smile – and something jumped inside of John’s chest. Confused, he followed Sherlock down the staircase and out into the grounds, where the sun was just starting to lower beyond the trees of the Forbidden Forest, casting long shadows across the grass. The only people nearby were a group of second-year Slytherins lounging in the shade by the castle wall, who didn’t look up as the two boys walked by.

Settling beneath their usual tree, Sherlock stretched out his long legs and stared out across the lake, John sitting cross-legged beside him. For a while, neither of them spoke, and then Sherlock cleared his throat and John looked at him.

“It’s. . .” he stopped and looked down at the ground beside him, his thin fingers playing with a knot of grass. “You. . .” he flexed his hand and briefly turned to look at John – his light blue eyes fixed on John’s darker ones. “You know. . .”

It wasn’t like Sherlock to be short on words. John cocked his head in curiosity.

“You’ll get there eventually,” John smiled.

Sherlock grinned back and pulled his knees up, draping his arms loosely around them.

“You’re the first friend I’ve ever had,” he said, very quickly, as though ashamed to admit it.

John blinked, deeply surprised. Sherlock’s intelligence and abilities had made him something of an enigma among the first-years. John was sure many of them would leap at the chance to get to know the elusive Sherlock Holmes – to be in his position right now, especially the girls.

“You’re the first person,” Sherlock continued, speaking more to his shoes now than to John, “who’s wanted to be my friend even after you actually know me.”

John was fairly certain nobody had ever truly known Sherlock Holmes – he was far too secretive for that – but he still felt a small glow of pride at Sherlock’s words. Sherlock was a difficult person to be around sometimes, but when it came down to it he was a good guy, really. John reached out a hand and squeezed his friend’s shoulder, who gave him an awkward smile. Again, John felt that peculiar sensation in the region of his chest – like someone had pushed him. Shaking his head slightly, his clambered to his feet and held out a hand to help Sherlock up.

“Dinner should be starting soon,” he said.

“Sure,” Sherlock nodded, accepting his hand and letting John tug him up.

They walked slowly back to the castle, hands in their pockets, and as they walked through the doors, John felt Sherlock’s hand rest for a moment on his shoulder – a gesture of apology and gratitude to his first and only friend.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last in this part. Chamber of Secrets, ahoy!

It was the last day of term – exams were over, trunks were packed, and the entire school was buzzing with excited rumours relating to Harry, Ron and Hermione’s adventures beneath the school three days ago.

While some of the rumours seemed hopelessly outlandish, Ron and Hermione – Harry was still out cold in the Hospital Wing – were able to confirm that at least some of them were true. Like how Ron had managed to overcome Professor’s McGonagall’s giant chess set, and Hermione had succeeded in outwitting Snape’s riddle challenge. Ron was more than happy to relay the details of what had happened – enjoying the limelight for once – but everyone was truly dying to know Harry’s tale of events with Professor Quirrell and Lord Voldemort.

“Rather him than me,” John said as he, Sherlock and Molly lounged by the lake in the late hours of the afternoon. There was still two hours before the great end-of-term feast, and they were savouring their last few moments in the Hogwarts grounds. John was really going to miss it here in the two months they’d be gone, though he was looking forward to seeing his mum and dad again.

“Me too,” Molly said, sneaking a glance at Sherlock, who was gazing out across the lake, lost in thought. John smirked – every time Molly hung out with the two of them, it seemed she couldn’t take her eyes off Sherlock for more than a few minutes. Unfortunately for her, Sherlock hadn’t seemed to notice one iota. “It must have been so scary.”

“I can’t believe Quirrell had another face on the back of his head all year,” John said with a shudder. The thought was creepy. He nudged Sherlock with the tip of his trainer and Sherlock turned to look at him. “Took Hermione longer than you to guess it was the Philosopher’s Stone he was after, didn’t it? I guess your hint helped.”

“Not so much,” Sherlock said. “It was Potter who accidentally found Flamel’s name on a Chocolate Frog card Longbottom gave him. I’m guessing Granger chose to ignore my help.”

“She probably thought you were just taking the mickey,” Molly said. Sherlock shrugged lazily and stretched his legs out further on the grass. A couple of first-year Hufflepuffs passing by glanced at him and giggled behind their hands. Molly looked irritated but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice or care.

“Wouldn’t be surprising,” said John. “Did you hear Ron telling Seamus about how he beat McGonagall’s chess set, Moll?”

“Yeah,” Molly said. “He must be really smart to figure it out on his own.”

“Didn’t think Weasley had it in him,” Sherlock said with a small snort. John gave him another harder nudge in the leg with his foot. 

“Maybe you should challenge him one day,” he said. “See if you can beat him.”

“Might do,” said Sherlock.

A couple of Gryffindor girls called Molly’s name, beckoning her towards their spot by the lake. Molly gathered up her things and ran over to them, giving John a cheery wave and Sherlock a wistful smile.

“D’you wish you’d done it?” John asked Sherlock, leaning back against the grass with his hands behind his head.

Sherlock gave a non-committal cock of the head, lying back next to John.

 

“More out of curiosity than heroism. Would have been interesting to see how much quicker I could have finished,” he said.

“Of course,” John said, laughing. “Don’t think your neck could’ve supported your head if you’d got the Stone.”

Sherlock smiled at John’s amusement and gave him nudge in the ribs with his elbow. They lay there for a while longer, staring up at the sky, talking about various, trivial things, until Sherlock rose up on his elbows and nodded to the castle doors. “Potter’s come round,” he said.

John sat up and saw the gamekeeper, Hagrid, climbing the steps to the Entrance Hall, a rectangular package tucked under one arm.

“He’s going to visit him in the Hospital Wing,” Sherlock said, laying flat again.

“How can you tell?” John asked, staring down at his friend, who closed his eyes against the sun leaking through the leaves above them.

“That package is obviously some kind of gift – by its size and shape I’d say some kind of photo album, and I heard Madam Pomfrey saying to Dumbledore that Potter should be waking up sometime this afternoon. Plus, Hagrid looked like he was about to start sobbing at any moment.”

“Right,” John said. “He’s not as scary as he looks, is he?”

“Nah,” Sherlock smirked. “Just like you’re a lot smarter than you look.”

John pummelled Sherlock good-naturedly with his fists, his spirits lifting as he remembered the impressive marks he’d received in, not only his History of Magic exam, but his other ones too. It had seemed for a while that Sherlock would beat Hermione in the race for top of the year, until the results of their Astronomy exams had been revealed, in which he’d only just scraped a pass. For a while, John had thought Sherlock was taking his defeat reasonably well, until he’d found Sherlock burning every star-chart he’d ever tried to complete in the Great Hall one lunchtime, muttering sourly under his breath.

When they finally heard the clock strike six, the two boys gathered their belongings and made their way back to the Great Hall, taking seats at their respective tables. John couldn’t resist craning his neck to see Harry, who was happily – if a little abashedly – accepting wave after wave of admiration from his follow Gryffindors, and from nearby Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. Considering he’d confronted Lord Voldemort all by himself, John thought harry looked pretty well patched-up – just a bandage over his hand and a scrape across one cheek.

The rest of the feast was a hearty and merry affair, especially after Dumbledore awarded Harry sixty house points, and Ron and Hermione fifty points each for their services down in the underground chambers, and the whole of Gryffindor table erupted into happy shrieks and yells after he bestowed ten points to Neville Longbottom (for having the courage to stand up to his friends when he felt they were doing wrong), which ensured them the House Cup. The Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables cheered along with him – so glad for somebody to have beaten Slytherin – and John even saw Sherlock applauding loudly along with the rest. He caught John’s eye and gave him a wide smile, which John returned with a happy laugh, throwing his hat into the air along with every other Gryffindor at the table.

As this would be the last feast of the term, John allowed himself to eat so much food he thought he would burst, including two helpings of Spaghetti Bolognese and a large slice of peach crumble and custard. He only wished he could have been sitting next to Sherlock. He was going to miss him very much over the summer – John had never met anyone quite like him before, and he’d miss the intellectuality of their conversations (or rather, him listening to whatever Sherlock had to say and marvelling at how such an extraordinary brain existed). 

The next morning, they all trouped down in horseless black carriages to Hogsmeade Station, where the Hogwarts Express was waiting for them. John, Sherlock and Molly wiled away the hours it took to get back home by playing Exploding Snap (Molly kept shrieking whenever her cards detonated in her hands), eating their own weight in Chocolate Frogs and Cauldron Cakes, and enjoying a heated match of chess, in which Sherlock played against both John and Molly together, and still managing to kick their sorry butts into checkmate.

Soon they were pulling into King’s Cross Station, dragging their trunks and owl cages through the barrier to the Muggle platform. While John was excited to see his parents waving to him, he started to feel a twist in his stomach at the prospect of saying goodbye to Sherlock. After giving Molly a hug goodbye as she rejoined her mother, then being mercilessly hugged and kissed by his own, John turned to Sherlock and, unsure of what to do, held out his hand. Sherlock took it, but then – with a “what the hell?” smile – pulled John towards him. John’s face broke out in a wide smile as he wrapped his arms round his best friend, feeling a warm glow spread through his body.

“Here,” Sherlock said when they pulled apart, reaching into the pocket of his jeans and pulling out a small square of parchment, upon which an address was printed. It was so neatly written, the paper’s edge so precisely cut, it wouldn’t have surprised John if Sherlock had done a first and second draft. “There’s never much to interest me at home. I’m counting on you to keep me entertained, Watson.”

“Aye, Sir Holmes,” John said with a salute. Sherlock laughed and John pulled out his own scrap of parchment that he’d prepared the night before. “Hear from you soon?” he said.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, raising a hand to someone over John’s shoulder. Turning, John saw a haughty-looking woman with Sherlock’s dark hair and pale blue eyes, being escorted by a tall young man with brown hair neatly arranged in a side-parting. Mycroft Holmes looked amazed to see his brother sharing such an enthusiastic farewell with John, and muttered something to their mother, who nodded, a pleasantly surprised smile on her lips.

“Come on, lad,” Mr. Watson called. He’d already loaded John’s trunk and Hector’s cage onto a trolley and was waiting down the platform with John’s mother. 

“One second,” John replied, and turned – somewhat desperately – to look back at Sherlock. “You will write, won’t you?”

“Promise,” Sherlock said, lightly touching the spot over his heart and holding his hand up in form of an oath. John couldn’t explain exactly why it was so crucially important that Sherlock swear to keep in touch with him over the next two months, but it was. It really was.

“See you, Sherlock,” he smiled, seizing him in another quick embrace before running off to join his parents, Sherlock’s final call of farewell following him as he walked back to the world that had once been all he’d ever known.


End file.
